


The Frailty of Life

by lestradead



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, angst like heCK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestradead/pseuds/lestradead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't want John to see him slowly degenerate into nothing. So he chooses to die early instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Frailty of Life

**Author's Note:**

> This was an originally an RP, so there'll be a lot of change of perspective. I wrote for John and the lovely jawnsjumpers wrote for Sherlock.

[24:02]: I can't do this anymore. SH  
[24:03]: What? No, you can't give up now. JW  
[24:05]: I can't keep going. SH  
[24:08]: Don't be ridiculous, of course you can. You're doing really well. JW  
[24:12]: This isn't doing well. Fighting it and living and recovering is doing well. Decaying, withering away pathetically and humiliatingly isn't doing well. SH  
[24:13]: You're not decaying or withering away. You're just feeling a bit unwell now, okay? JW  
[24:14]: You're the strongest person I know. Don't let me down. JW  
[24:16]: Even I'm not strong enough to fight this. It's inevitable and you know it. SH  
[24:16]: I just want to be able to go while I'm still half healthy, while I'm still functioning. Before everything else comes with it. SH  
[24:17]: I don't want you to remember me in a fucking hospital bed with dozens of tubes sticking out of me and barely able to open my eyes let alone hold your hand. SH  
[24:18]: I don't want you to go. JW  
[24:18]: It's too early. I haven't spent enough time with you and I haven't told you everything I want you to know. JW  
[24:18]: I know there's a slim chance of your survival, but you could be in that twenty percent, you'll never know. JW  
[24:19]: What is the point in saying it now? It's not too early at all. It's too late. SH  
[24:19]: At this stage, it's not even twenty percent. It's closer to eleven. SH  
[24:20]: I can't. SH  
[24:32]: Fine. If that's what you want, then who am I to stop you? JW  
[24:33]: As much as I want you here beside me for as long as possible, I don't know if I can bear through that when you're already practically dead. JW  
[24:33]: I'm sorry. It's the truth. JW  
[24:34]: And I know I have to accept that. JW  
[24:36]: Don't apologise. It is the truth. SH  
[24:38]: I don't want to have to go through that, I don't want to have to witness myself slowly decaying, and I would not dare wish it on you. I don't want to put you through that either. SH  
[24:39]: It will be easier while I am still able to say goodbye. SH  
[24:41]: Do you want me to be there when it happens? JW  
[24:41]: It'll hurt more but I think that's just how it works. JW  
[24:42]: It'll hurt you but it'll hurt me more. JW  
[24:42]: Because I'll be alive and you wouldn't. JW  
[24:43]: Again. You'll have to do all that again. SH  
[24:44]: And this time I won't be coming back. SH  
[24:53]: This isn't fair. SH  
[24:55]: Nothing is ever fair. JW  
[24:55]: It's called reality. JW  
[24:57]: Before you go, and I know you want that to happen as soon as possible, I just want you to know that you're perfect and amazing and that I love you. JW  
[24:58]: If there's a Heaven, which I know you're very skeptical about, I know that you'll be there. JW  
[24:59]: And I know you'll be happy, and that's enough for me. JW  
[1:00]: John. SH  
[1:00]: John, come home. SH  
[1:04]: Okay. JW  
[1:05]: I am sorry. For doing this to you. And I hate that reality is so cruel. SH  
[1:06]: I don't want to leave you. I don't want to leave you behind. SH  
[1:08]: It's not really something I can stop. Your death, my mourning. When you die my heart will be in the coffin there with you. JW  
[1:09]: But I promise I won't ever forget you. JW  
[1:13]: I need to. There are things that I need to say, but I need to be able to hold onto you while I say them. SH  
[1:14]: Of course. I'll be home in five, stay in bed. JW  
[1:15]: Will you lie with me, tonight? Will you stay beside me and sleep with me? SH  
[1:18]: I can't be one to deny. JW  
[1:19]: Now don't tire your thumbs, my dearest. Just stay there and rest. JW  
[1:20]: Alright. Okay. SH

~~

With one last sniffle and a quick wipe of his sleeve at his eyes, John placed his phone back in his pocket, gingerly slipping it in, feeling awfully sensitive and vulnerable after an intense conversation where his voice wasn't even used. He downed the last drops of his beer and slid a note on the counter, leaving the pub without another word, though initially he wanted to drink his worries away and pass out on the curb and come home to a still alive, still fighting body on his bed even if he was shitfaced or hungover. That night, though, his cab pulled up to the front door of 221b, he payed the fare and got out with heavy feet and an even heavier heart, dragging himself through the streetlamp-lit pavement as he fished his keys out and poked at the lock before heaving himself inside, shrugging his coat off and tossing it to the side, too tired and too desperate for something to hold on to to even care. Slumping to the bedroom, he knocked on the door as common courtesy before entering, finding Sherlock, all sick and tired and blanket-clad but still gorgeous nonetheless. "Hello, you," John greeted tiredly as he shuffled around the room, making sure that the tubes that were connected to various parts in Sherlock's body were fixed correctly, even though he knew that he wouldn't need to do so any soon, "how was your day?" he asked, fiddling around with the hem of his jumper.

~~

It was difficult to breathe. And not because of the illness, either. No, the illness was a slow ache and dizzy spells and terrifying loss of control in brief, unprecedented moments. The illness was not some immovable weight that sat on his chest and crushed his lungs, his heart his throat, made him feel heavier than ever, made it difficult to move at all. No, that was something else. And Sherlock hated it. He had prepared himself for this, he'd prepared himself for the conversation. He'd held the pills in his hand and had created the conversation in his head, knew how John would respond, had been so prepared to keep himself together and keep pushing. But he'd crumbled. And now he couldn't breathe and he couldn't stop his eyes from watering, as infuriating as it was. He couldn't stop trying to convince himself that he could last a little longer, just a little longer, though it was useless. Everything was fraying at the edges. He was bursting at the seams. He needed his constant, his rock, his ground. He needed John. And then he was home, greeting him tiredly as if it were any other day, checking the equipment routinely and habitually. "Uneventful," he said, and the word was choked, caught in his throat. He swallowed, tried again. "How was yours?"

~~

It was unbelievable how John could still keep his composure while he was talking to the dead man on the bed. He should be shaking, he should be crying, he should be vomiting his beers all over the floor or at least have some violent physical or emotional or mental reaction to everything, but he didn't. He had already accepted from the start that Sherlock was going to die, that he was going to be gone from his life forever, that he wouldn't be there to witness John's laughs or cries or smiles or frowns anymore. He wouldn't hear his voice anymore, he wouldn't see him. He'd be reminded of his past existence, though, and that, to John, would hit him worst. Not the death, not the mourning, but the very reminder that the one person in his life he depended upon was once there and was then gone without even having the chance to say the infinite number of things he wanted to say. Within a few hours, he would be gone. He could see the headlines already. "Sherlock Holmes: Dead". He'd have to be interviewed for papers or magazines or news channels, or whatever. He wasn't ready. He never was, never will be. "A rollercoaster," he replied to Sherlock's question, giving him a small smile in attempt to ease everything. It didn't work. Sherlock was still there, still willing to die. John didn't know what to do.

~~

Sherlock had to settle himself. He had to pull himself back together, for these last moments. There was still some time before he had to go, still time to say everything. And Sherlock had to say it. Had to. "Understandable," he replied evenly, this time, and then carefully pushed himself into sitting, being careful with the tubes and the pain that wracked his body as he shuffled over, made room. The pills sat on the table beside him. There would be time. "Sit with me. Stay with me," he murmured, and it was a request, more than anything. One that he knew John would agree to. He had to keep himself together. He was fraying and bursting and ready to unravel, but kept himself whole, for a little while longer, took a deep breath, cleared his head. John. _John_. He had to dedicate these last moments to John. Sherlock held out a frail hand, reaching out for him.

~~

And John took it. Sherlock's hand was still warm. Maybe Sherlock could direct mental impulses to his body to gather up all the warmth he had for his remaining days and emit them on that one night. John didn't know. It didn't matter. "I'm not leaving," said John, toeing off his shoes as he climbed onto the bed, draping three tubes surgically inserted into Sherlock's stomach over his lap. Then it all burst. It was like a popping balloon, really. John just started to.. it was too much to be even called crying. He wept, he screamed and he threw a small tantrum as he sobbed into his hands, into the sheets, almost pulling out the dextrose that was attached to the crook of Sherlock's right arm. He didn't really accept it. He couldn't. Sherlock was dying and he was a doctor, he could have known the signs from the start, but he didn't. He was too careless to see, and there was only one thing that could float into his mind as he found out Sherlock's terminal diagnosis. _You see, but you do not observe,_ his mind told him over and over, _you see, but you do not observe, you see but you do not observe, you see but you do not observe, youseebutyoudonotobserve youseebutyoudonotobserveyouseebutyoudonotobserve-_ until he was cut off by the nurse's words. But at that time, approximately 1:40 in the morning, John had calmed down, stopped his tears, trying to stop his heart from beating too much. Sherlock's hand, still warm, wrapped weakly around his wrist. John could feel the pulse in his thumb, Sherlock's illness stretching his skin across his bones that it was almost ghastly. "I'm okay," he lied through heaving breaths, "I'm okay, I'm okay."

~~

He wasn't okay. He wasn't okay. That heavy, immovable feeling settled hard over Sherlock's throat, his chest, and he gripped John's wrist tightly - or as tightly as he could manage, in his weak state - and he watched. He could do nothing but watch, for a moment, while his best friend unravelled next to him and wept, wailed. He wasn't okay. "John," Sherlock whispered, the name coming out almost as a whimper. Carefully maneuvering around the tubes, he wrapped his arms around his best friend tightly and buried his face in John's neck and focussed on holding him, on keeping him close, on breathing deeply and slowly, on memorizing this incredible man. He tried to think. He tried to find the things he needed to say. And then he opened his mouth, and he was gone. "I need to tell you... there is so much I need to tell you, John, and I don't have the time. I don't have enough time to tell you and adequately explain how much I need you, how much I cherish you, how you have changed me. I need to try and explain to you how no one has ever been so important to me, so significant in my life, no one has been more important than the work, no one has cared or has been as understanding or as loyal or as patient as you have been, and I would not give that up for the world. You are the most incredible, the greatest man I have ever known, that I have ever been blessed enough to know. And I love you. God damn, John, I love you so much and I wish I could stay with you and I hate this. I hate that I'm leaving you behind. I hate that I get to spend the rest of my life with you, but you can't spend the rest of your life with me. I hate that I have to leave you. I hate this and I love you so much." By the end, he really couldn't breathe. He couldn't. He couldn't. "John," he choked, clutching onto him weakly.

~~

John clung onto Sherlock's words as if his life depended on it, recording it mentally to store behind in a dusty shelf in his mind to touch again only when he himself dies. And now Sherlock was dying, and John didn't have enough time to tell him everything. He started to spew empty words that somehow seemed full into Sherlock's ear, petting his hair and kissing his tears, murmuring soft words of love for him and hate for reality, letting him curl up on his lap as they cried together, tears mixing on the satin duvet, possibly waking up neighbors but too sad to even bother caring. John could feel Sherlock slacken against him as his crying subsided, and for once in what felt like an eternity, everything was peaceful. He watched as Sherlock's chest rose and fell erratically, sobs still wracking his spine and body and soul. Snagging the pills off the saucer that sat on the bedside table, he gripped them loosely in his hand before letting out a breath, a lump of oxygen so big in his throat he felt that it might tear his esophagus open. "Sh-Sherlock," he murmured quietly, helping him up to a sitting position. "I love you," he told him as he pushed the pills into Sherlock's thin fingers, slowly picking off the tubes that poked into his body like strings holding him down to earth, down to reality- down to living. John wanted his death to be as painless as possible. "I love you," he repeated as he pressed a kiss to his forehead first then to his lips. "I love you. I'll love you until the end of my days, Sherlock. You are everything to me, and by doing this you're taking that all away from me, but I know that's what love is. Love is pain, love is bliss, love is euphoria, love is melancholy. I will suffer for you, and someday I'll be with you, too. You have a special place in my heart. You _are_ my heart. You are my heart, my mind, my body, my soul. You're my daylight, my night sky, my light and my love. You're amazing and just utterly breathtaking that sometimes I don't even think you're real. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I'll love you until the end of my days, and I'll think of you for every minute after your passing." He swallowed the lump down and planted a lingering kiss upon Sherlock's lips before taking his wrists to put up to his head, lining his hands with his lips. "Go on. I'll be here until you're gone."

~~

Holding onto John, holding onto every beautiful and agonizing and relieving and maddening word that spilled from his lips, Sherlock reveled this last moment, his own crying dulling to hiccups and unsteady, shallow breathing. And then John's lips were against his and he thought he might break. He thought he might shatter at once. God, he loved this man. And he was right. Love was pain, love was bliss, love was euphoria, love was melancholy. Love was saying goodbye while you still could so you didn't simply slip away without the chance, without being able to say these things first. Love was doing this now so John wouldn't have to watch him deteriorate into nothing, because that would hurt so much more. Love was lying together and staying together while he slipped away.  
Love was watching someone die.  
Sherlock shut his eyes tight, the tears simply streaming now, though he held his breath, didn't utter a word, lips pressed tightly together. He leaned forward and pressed his face into John's shoulder, wrapping his now free arms around this incredible, extraordinary, unbelievable man. "You are my world, John Hamish Watson," he whispered when he could find his voice. "And wherever I go, whatever waits for me beyond this, I will wait for you. I will wait until you're old and you've lived the rest of your life to the absolute best, when you've moved on and you keep _living_. I will wait. And I will see you again. And I will still love you just as much as I love you now." Shutting his wet eyes tightly, he pulled away to cup John's face in his hands, pressing his lips to the other's. He kissed him slowly, lovingly, sincerely. Tears ran down his cheeks and onto his lips but he didn't care. He didn't care because he loved John and he was kissing John and he was going to die but it was okay. It was okay because John would stay with him and he loved him and he loved him and he loved him. Sherlock took the pills, placed them to his mouth, and swallowed them back without hesitating. He swallowed. And it was done. He'd slip away in the next half hour. Choking on another quiet sob, he kissed John again, and with damp cheeks and red, swollen eyes, he smiled. It hurt, it was so hard, but he smiled and he kissed John again and he held his hands tightly. "I love you. God, do I love you."

~~

And then he was gone. The pills were swallowed and his breathing was slowly reducing into slow inhales and sharp exhales. His pulse- John could feel the pulse of Sherlock's wrist against his fingers as he gripped the bony wrist with care, as if he was a piece of art that would break at the slightest of pressure. Sherlock was slipping away from his world, this unfair and cruel and war-filled world that had so much wrongs and just as many rights, Sherlock was slipping away from reality, delving into a new world of black void and nothingness. John believed in an afterlife. He wasn't too devout of a Christian, he didn't go to church or even pray at all, but he believed in God and he believed in Heaven. He knew Sherlock would be up there. It was the only thing he was sure of now. He wasn't sure if he was crying, he wasn't sure if he was just holding the body that slowly relieved muscular tension, he wasn't sure if he could still feel Sherlock's pulse or not, he wasn't sure anymore. Although he knew it wasn't a good time, he let Sherlock's head sink down to his lap as he died, his breathing stopping as another tear managed to slide down from his eye, down his cheek, and drop pathetically onto dead Sherlock's hair, and he hummed. He hummed a tune that was widely known as happy when everyone was well aware that it was the saddest fucking song in the entirety of the musical universe. _You are my sunshine_ , he sang in his head, feeling Sherlock's flesh start to go cold, his blood stopping its circulation, his breathing completely disappearing. _You are my sunshine_ , he recited in his head, caressing the hair of the dead man on his lap, unable to comprehend anything at all, contemplating the thought of drinking a whole pub and keeping the corpse of dead Sherlock's body until it rots. _You make me happy when skies are gray_ , he continued, biting the inside of his cheek as his face screwed up in an expression of both hurting and anger and sadness, his tears dropping in small rivulets down his kiss-worn face, down the curve of his chin. _You'll never know, dear, how much I love you_. The worst thing was that it was true. _Please don't take my sunshine away_.

~~

The last thing that registered in Sherlock's consciousness was the first bar of a familiar tune. Just hummed, so very gently. As he lay his head in John's lap and slowly slipped away, vaguely aware that his hands were still tight around John's, vaguely aware that his heart was slowing and his breathing was slowing and he was leaving, slipping, falling away from John and into some great unknown, there was a flicker of panic, terror, desperation. He didn't want to go. He wasn't ready. He couldn't go. He couldn't. Just a moment, where his fingers tightened and his breath hitched.  
And then he was aware of that distant, soft tune, and realized exactly what it was, from the depths of the most irrelevant rooms in his mind palace. _You are my sunshine_. Sherlock's chest ached. It was okay. It was alright. It was time to go. He could go now. _I love you, John. I will wait for you_. And then his heart came to a halt and his last breath was exhaled shakily, and he was gone.  
There was a brief moment of what felt like awareness, of what felt like being in transition, from one place to another. There was a brief realization that he was still here, but he was not present, and he was looking down. He could see himself, could see John crying once more, still humming that depressing tune. _Please don't take my sunshine away_. There was time for one more thing. Sherlock bent (or perhaps he stepped forward, perhaps back. There was no understanding of space, movement, in his brief moment of transition, clarity) and he brushed his lips over John's cheek. And then he was simply gone. There was nothing left. Nothing but a cold, still body, stiffening in John's lap, fingers still tight around the other man's hand. There was nothing.

~~

Maybe it was just the cold air that swarmed around the room, but John felt a vague brush of oddly warm lips on his cheek. He looked around the room with red, puffy eyes, but saw nothing but his surroundings; the violin that perched peacefully inside its case in the corner, the telly that was currently then shut off on the other side, the door that was still slightly open when he didn't close it before, and, of course, the dead body whose hand still held his wrist. It was cold and it was eerie how only Sherlock's fingers were stiff with the sudden rush of rigor mortis as he died. One small brush of John's fingers and the pressure was gone. Now he was alone. He had no one. He had lost his other half, and it felt like a massive piece of his soul had broken off and was tossed away. He was so alone. He was so alone. He was so alone. Sherlock was dead and everything hurt. His cold body still lay in his lap. John cursed the earth for being so cruel, he cursed himself for knowing too late, he cursed the winds, he cursed the oceans, he cursed the sun and the moon and the stars, he cursed the birds that flew and the humans that walked, he cursed the fish that swam and the tigers who stalked, he cursed everything in the world and felt everything was just pointless, but knowing that Sherlock was in a better place, he wouldn't dare complain. "Goodbye, my sweet king," he whispered to the dead body, and then looked up at the ceiling of his room, as if the ghost of Sherlock Holmes could hear him, "goodnight, my sweet angel."

~~

In the end, it was Mycroft who came to collect him, as was only right. He gave the doctor exactly forty six minutes from time of death, before he was stepping into the living room of 221B, back straight and shoulders squared and already wearing black, and then gently, he stood in the doorway of Sherlock's room, pausing for a moment to take in the sight of his dead brother in the lap of the crushed doctor. For a moment, the man simply glanced over them, before softly; "John." His eyes were still drawn to his little brother for a long moment, and his chest constricted and his jaw tightened, but otherwise he was steely and masked, in the face of his brother's death. Of course, any evidence otherwise from watching the whole scene through the cameras he'd installed months ago was tucked away quite thoroughly. There had been arrangements. The Holmes brothers had traded their own formalities and farewells. Now all there was to tend to was one John Watson and a corpse.

~~

Tearing his hands away from his face only to find Mycroft standing at the doorway, John heaved in a breath and slowly exhaled it, looking down at the corpse on his lap then back to its brother. His vocal chords were too strained from the screaming and crying, but he was spared the tedium of talking when he heard footsteps of more than three people approaching the room. People in white came in, two of them carrying a stretcher, another two prying Sherlock's dead body away from John's tight grasp on its dressing gown, and when they finally got the corpse, another two people were there to drape blankets over his shoulders, making him drink tea and offering small words of comfort, things that did absolutely nothing to ease the pain of Sherlock's passing. Mycroft Holmes just stood there, watching as the events unraveled before him, standing in his usual stance, his hair slicked back and his usual gray cotton three-piece suits replaced with black, just to fit what had happened. More people came in to take away the medical equipment in the room, all the bags of medicine and wraps of gauze and slips of pills. Mycroft watched, John cried, people came and went, and Sherlock was dead. Everything else was a blur, but time passed and John found himself in the company of Mycroft Holmes, who knew that he might get into trouble when left alone after the death of his best friend and his potential romantic partner. There were so many words unsaid, so many words cooped up in his heart that he couldn't possibly let out to Mycroft, not to anyone, and so he kept quiet, feeling self-conscious as Mycroft's eyes trailed his every movement. John knew the elder Holmes could read him; read every little movement he made, just like Sherlock always did. For once, he was afraid. He didn't know what was to come. He didn't know.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the medical inaccuracies; we're no doctors.


End file.
